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SUMMER-FALLOW 


CHARLES  BUXTON  GOING 
q 


Fallow  fields,  awaiting'  here 
Seed  and  scythe  another  year. 

Let  us  pick,  in  passing  by. 
Any  bloom  that  takes  the  eye  ; 

Hoping  fuller  tilth  may  yield 
Worthier  harvest  from  the  field. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK  LONDON 

27  West  Twenty -third  St.  24  Bedford  St.,  Strand 

®fje  ^nicherbocher  |lress 
1892 


0 


COPYRIGHT,  1892 

BY 
CHARGES   BUXTON  GOING 


Electrotyped,  Printed,  and  Bound  by 

Ube  Ifmicfeerbocfcet  press,  IRew  Jfforft 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


TO    MY   WIFE 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  is  AFFECTIONATELY 
INSCRIBED 


M191943 


CONTENTS. 


WHERE  SHE  COMES 3 

WHEN  SHE  COMES 5 

A  MEETING 7 

QUESTIONING 8 

IN  CELIA'S  AUTOGRAPH  ALBUM    ....  9 

UNFULFILLED 10 

IN  GLAD  WEATHER n 

RETROSPECT 12 

WHEN  THE  BRUSH  WAS  CLEARED        ...  14 

WAITING 16 

THE  SQUIRE 17 

UNREST 19 

A  DAYDREAM 21 

HER  MOUTH 23 

HER  HAIR 24 

HER  BYES 25 

AFTER  MOONRISE 26 

ALINE 28 

LIVING 31 

WHITE  CRAPE 33 

EVENTIDE 35 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  MOOD 37 

WEST  WIND 38 

VACATION .  40 

THISTLEDOWN 42 

LONGING 44 

THE  SOUTH  WIND 46 

A  SUMMER  SONG .  48 

THE  SANDMAN'S  SONG 49 

MIDSUMMER 51 

THE  NIGHT  WIND 53 

A  SLEEPY  SONG 55 

Two  LULLABIES 57 

THE  TRUE  SONG     .......  59 

APRIL 61 

IN  IDLE  TIME 63 

INSPIRATION 65 

SILENCE 66 

LIFE 67 

DEATH 68 

A  TYPE 69 

OPPORTUNITY 70 

THE  POETS 72 

FLIGHT  OF  SUMMER 74 

COASTWISE 75 

To  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY        ....  76 

RETURN  OE  SPRING 78 

To  You  WHO  READ       .        .        .        .                .  81 

THE  WORLD  is  LARGE  .                       ...  82 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PACK 

To  THE  PROFESSOR 83 

BAI/LAD  OP  SHADE  AND  SUN         ....  84 

IN  SHADYTOWN 86 

TRIOLETS 87 

WITH  FLOWERS 89 

A  CONTENTED  MAN 90 

ROMANCE  OF  A  HAMMOCK 92 

LUELLA 94 

A  COUNTRY  MUSE 96 

"  The  South  Wind  "  and  "  Vacation  "  appeared  origi- 
nally in  St.  Nicholas ;  "In  Glad  Weather"  and  "  Where 
She  Comes  "  in  Scribne^s  ;  "  When  She  Comes  "  in  The 
Ladies'  Home  Journal ;  and  "Questioning"  in  Life. 
Acknowledgment  is  made  to  editors  and  publishers  of 
these  magazines  for  their  courtesy  in  permitting  reprint 
of  the  selections  here. 


]\TO  nightingale  am  I,  to  bring 

A  throbbing  echo  from  the  night 
With  wild  sweet  harmony  ;  I  sing 
As  any  sparrow  might  : 

As  any  little  roadside  bird 

That,  full  of  cares  about  its  nest, 

Still  feels  the  sunshine,  and  is  heard 
In  song  among  the  rest. 

But  one  who,  passing,  stops  to  hear 
May  find  how  many  others  sing, 

And  bear  remembrance  all  the  year 
Of  one  sweet  day  in  spring  : 

He  may  not  know  the  single  bird; 

It  sings  like  any  other  one  ; 
And  yet  he  feels  that  spring  has  stirred 

And  filled  his  heart  with  sun  ! 


When  spring  comes  back  again,  and  brings 
A  twitter  rotmd  the  building  nest, 
And  where  the  fields  were  barrenest 

A  tender  hue  of  summer  clings. 

And,  ere  the  trees  begin  to  wake, 
A  group  of  early  wild-Jlowers  blow, 
Nor  think  if  any  see  or  no, 

But  blossom  for  the  dear  spring's  sake — 

So,  Sweet,  I  bring  this  group  of  songs ; 
That,  if  no  other  one  approve, 
They  yet  may  lift  a  heart  of  love 

To  you,  to  whom  their  life  belongs. 


WHERE  SHE   COMES. 

\\7  ITH  heavy  elders  overhung, 
*          Half  hid  in  clover  masses, 
An  old  fence  rambles  on  among 

The  tangled  meadow  grasses. 
It  makes  a  shade  for  lady-fern, 

Which  nestles  close  beside  it ; 
While  clematis,  at  every  turn, 

And  roses  almost  hide  it. 

In  shade  of  overhanging  sprays 

And  down  a  sunny  hollow, 
By  hazel  copse  and  woodland  ways, 

The  winding  fence  I  follow : 
By  rose  and  thorn  and  fragrant  dew, 

In  search  of  something  sweeter — 
The  orchard  gap,  where  she  comes  through, 

And  I  go  down  to  meet  her  ! 

The  sunlight  slants  across  the  fence 

Where  lichens  gray  it  over, 
And  stirs  a  hundred  dreamy  scents 

From  fern  and  mint  and  clover : 


3UMMER-FALLO  W. 

But  though  the  air  is  sweet  to-day, 
I  know  of  something  sweeter — 

That  she  can  only  come  this  way, 
And  I  am  sure  to  meet  her ! 

And  so,  while  chipmunks  run  a  match 

To  tell  the  wrens  who  's  coming, 
And  all  across  the  brier  patch 

There  sounds  a  drowsy  humming — 
The  hum  of  honey-seeking  bees,— 

I  seek  for  something  sweeter ; 
A  gap,  amongst  the  apple-trees, 

Where  I  am  going  to  meet  her  ! 


WHEN  SHE  COMES. 

TV/T  Y  love  may  come  in  early  spring 
1V1     Through  orchards,  April-kissed, 
With  happy  bluebirds  carolling 

In  dreamy  skies  of  mist. 
Then  sing,  glad  oriole,  and  hush 

The  mourning  of  the  dove  : 
But  sing  !  sing,  bobolink  and  thrush 

Of  love,  and  love,  and  love  ! 

Or  she  may  come  in  summer  days 

When  heated  meadows  rest, 
And,  down  the  fields,  a  goldfinch  sways 

Upon  the  thistle's  crest. 
Then,  black-throat,  sing  !  you  love  the  sun ; 

Sing,  quail,  amid  the  heat, 
And  all  your  songs  shall  make  this  one — 

'  *  My  sweet — my  sweet — my  sweet ! ' ' 

Her  path  may  lie  through  leafless  trees  ; 

Her  dainty  feet  may  stir 
Soft  rustling  leaves ;  the  chickadees 

May  all  make  love  to  her. 
5 


S  UMMER-FA  LLOW. 

Then,  sun,  shine  soft  from  golden  skies  ; 

Stay,  happy  wind,  to  kiss 
Her  cheek,  and  fill  my  sweetheart's  eyes 

With  bliss,  and  bliss,  and  bliss  ! 

Across  a  track  of  drifting  snow 

If  she  should  chance  to  tread, 
The  lingering  flakes  shall  come  and  go 

Around  her  darling  head — 
The  longing  flakes  caress  her  hair : 

Then,  snowbirds,  round  her  dart ! 
Sing,  shining  snow  and  shining  air, 

1  i  Sweetheart — sweetheart — sweetheart. 

I  would,  if  she  shall  come  in  spring, 

That  springtime  might  be  here. 
I  long  for  winter,  if  it  bring 

My  love  a  day  more  near  ! 
For  what  is  spring  or  what  is  fall  ? 

Love  only  makes  the  skies  : 
My  love  shall  blend  the  joy  of  all 

Sweet  summers,  in  her  eyes  ! 


A  MEETING. 

T  CAN  recall  so  well  how  she  would  look — 

How,  at  the  very  murmur  of  her  dress 
On  entering  the  door,  the  whole  room  took 
An  air  of  gentleness. 

That  was  so  long  ago  !  and  yet  his  eyes 

Had  always,  afterwards,  the  look  that  waits 

And  yearns,  and  waits  again,  nor  can  disguise 
Something  it  contemplates. 


May  we  imagine  it  ?  the  sob,  the  tears, 
The  long,  sweet,  shuddering  breath ;  then,  on 
her  breast, 

The  great,  full,  flooding  sense  of  endless  years 
Of  heaven,  and  her,  and  rest ! 


QUESTIONING. 

,  mouth  as  sweet  as  any  morn  in  May  ! 
Oh,  lips  as  rosy  as  the  sunlight  glow  ! 

If  I  should  speak  the  words  which  struggle  so, 
What  answer  would  you  give  to  me  to-day  ? 
Would  that  white  breast  as  softly  heave,  I  pray, 

The  gentle  breath  as  calmly  come  and  go 

When  I  had  spoken  ?    Surely,  you  must  know 
Already,  everything  I  have  to  say  : 
Yet  maybe,  telling  it,  I  might  obtain 

From  your  sweet  influence,  some  grace  of  speech 
To  make  my  words  not  altogether  vain  ; 

Some  gentle  phrase  I  learned  of  you  might 

reach 

Your  tender  heart :  and  softly  entering,  make 
Dear  love,  who  lies  half  sleeping  there,  awake. 


IN  CELIAS  AUTOGRAPH  ALBUM. 

T  HARDLY  know  what  I  should  write  ; 
A     For  such  a  dainty  little  maid 
The  verses  should  be  fairy  light — 
My  muse  can  scarce  attempt  the  flight, 
I  am  afraid. 

Ah  !  little  flower,  whom  sun  and  shade 

And  breezes,  passing  to  and  fro, 
Bach  day  have  all  the  sweeter  made, 
No  wandering  footstep  yet  has  strayed 
To  where  you  grow. 

So  hide,  the  sheltering  leaves  below ; 

I^est  someone  chance  their  shade  to  part, 
Who,  seeing  you,  should  love  you  so 
He  'd  bear  you  off:  yet 't  would,  I  know, 
Be  next  his  heart ! 


UNFULFILLED. 

"JSJEXT  month,  he  said,  the  bells  shall  ring 
•*•  ^      And  my  love's  eyes  be  still  and  sweet ; 
And  she  shall  wear  some  soft  white  thing, 
Her  hand  in  mine,  while  children  fling 
White  blossoms  at  her  feet. 

They  rang  the  bell,  and  smoothed  away 
Her  hair,  above  the  sweet,  still  eyes ; 

But  ere  she  took  his  hand  that  day, 

He  must  have  trod  the  silent  way 
From  earth  to  Paradise. 


10 


IN  GLAD  WEATHER. 

T  DO  not  know  what  skies  there  were, 
Nor  if  the  winds  were  high  or  low  : 
I  think  I  heard  the  branches  stir 

A  little,  when  we  turned  to  go  ; 
I  think  I  saw  the  grasses  sway 

As  if  they  tried  to  kiss  your  feet — 
And  yet,  it  seems  like  yesterday, 

That  day  together,  Sweet ! 

I  think  it  must  have  been  in  May  ; 

I  think  the  sunlight  must  have  shone  ; 
I  know  a  scent  of  springtime  lay 

Across  the  fields  ;  we  were  alone  : 
We  went  together,  you  and  I — 

How  could  I  look  beyond  your  eyes  ? 
If  you  were  only  standing  by, 

I  did  not  miss  the  skies ! 

I  could  not  tell  if  evening  glowed, 

Or  noonday  heat  lay  white  and  still, 
Beyond  the  shadows  of  the  road  ; 

I  only  watched  your  face,  until 
I  knew  it  was  the  gladdest  day, 

The  sweetest  day  that  summer  knew, 
The  time  when  we  two  stole  away, 

And  I  saw  only  you  ! 
ii 


RETROSPECT. 

counts  to-day  the  wreath  of  frost 
Across  the  window  pane  ? 
What  matters  when  the  streets  are  lost 

In  driving  sheets  of  rain  ? 
If  memory  knows  some  sunny  nook 
Along  the  willow-margined  brook, 
To-day  may  storm  in  vain. 

Though  all  around  us  buildings  rise 

To  bound  the  outward  view, 
Though  every  narrow  peep  of  skies 

Be  smoke,  instead  of  blue, 
Yet  still  our  happy  thoughts  may  stray 
Through  sunlit  fields,  along  the  way 

Some  happy  summer  knew. 

And  rest  may  come,  'mid  cares  increased 

If,  slipping  off  their  load, 
We  sometimes  tread,  in  thought  at  least, 

A  shady  country  road, 
Or  dream  of  basking  hills,  and  feel 
The  sweet  warm  winds  which  used  to  steal 

From  meadows,  newly  mowed. 

12 


RETROSPECT.  13 

And  so,  when  to  the  weary  mind 
lyife's  readings  seem  perplexed, 

We  turn  the  pages  back,  and  find 
Some  earlier,  easier  text ; 

Until  our  memory  beguiled 

With  pictures,  like  a  little  child, 
Forgets  that  it  was  vexed  ! 


WHEN  THE  BRUSH   WAS  CLEARED. 

1V/T  AYBK  it  was  better  so  ; 

For  some  practical  design, 
Better  that  the  trees  should  grow 

Free  from  underbrush  and  vine  ; 
But  it  spoiled  a  haunt  of  mine — 

Haunt  of  golden  crown  and  thrush, 
Where  the  sun  could  hardly  shine — 

When  they  cleared  away  the  brush. 

True,  the  ferns  all  died  away  ; 

And  the  shy,  sweet  things  that  hide, 
Timid  of  the  light  of  day, 

All  were  trampled  down,  or  died  : 
But  a  vista  opened  wide 

Where  had  been  a  narrow  view, 
Thicket-hemmed  on  every  side, 

And  the  sweet  wood-pasture  grew. 

So  the  woods  fulfilled,  maybe, 
Such  a  use  as  nature  meant ; 

But  I  could  not  quite  agree, 
And  my  longing  fancy  went 
14 


WHEN    THE  BRUSH   WAS  CLEARED.        15 

Back  to  happy  mornings  spent 
Kre  the  brush  was  cleared  away — 

Longing  more  for  sentiment, 
And  for  less  of  work-a-day . 


Sweet  child  mysteries,  that  crept 

Through  our  childish  joys  and  fears — 
Ah,  how  soon  their  growth  was  swept 

By  a  scythe  of  prosier  years  ! 
But  although  our  vision  clears 

With  a  manlier  part  to  play, 
Comes  the  thought,  with  taste  of  tears, 

That  the  brush  is  cleared  away  ! 


WAITING. 

HK  sat  and  spun  and  looked  away  : 
In  warm  brown  fields,  the  springing  wheat 

Greened  softly ;  all  the  winds  were  sweet, 
And  she  was  gay. 

"  I  spin,"  she  said,  "  a  golden  thread, 
For  we  shall  wed  in  May. ' ' 

So  sang  the  wind  across  her  thread, 
So  sped  her  fancy  far  a-sea  : 
She  saw  wide  waters  swinging  free, 

Wide  skies  o'erhead. 

*  '  Glad  ripples,  steal  along  the  keel, 

And  bring  him  weal,"  she  said. 


A  ceaseless  sobbing  of  the  wave 
Comes  ever  upward  from  the  south  ; 
She  looks  across  the  summer's  drouth — 

Her  eyes  are  brave. 
The  wheel  alone  makes  mournful  tone 

I/ike  those  who  moan  a  grave. 

16 


THE  SQUIRE. 

THE  Squire  was  young,  and  the  Squire  was 
tall 

And  merry  and  gay,  as  young  squires  be  ; 
He  had  guests  by  the  score  at  the  old  stone  hall, 
But  it  sometimes  was  lonely,  in  spite  of  them  all : 
'  *  I  will  choose  me  a  wife  for  my  home, ' '  said  he. 

The  maid  was  young,  and  the  maid  was  fair, 

And  gentle  and  true,  as  maidens  be. 
The  sweet  wild-rose  in  the  evening  air, 
The  breezes  that  lingered  to  touch  her  hair, 
Were  never  a  whit  more  pure  than  she. 

The  hall  was  cold  for  a  dainty  flower, 

But  the  bride  was  happy,  as  young  wives  be, 

For  love's  warm  sun  has  a  wondrous  power  ; 

And  she  longed  all  day  for  the  one  glad  hour 
When  the  Squire  would  hold  her  upon  his  knee. 

But  the  Squire  was  young,  and  the  Squire  was 

gay, 

And  friends  by  the  dozen  and  score  had  he ; 
2  17 


1 8  SUMMER-FALLO  W. 

And   friendship's  claims   seemed   to   grow  each 

day, 

For  friendship  is  proved  by  a  great  display, 
While  a  wife— "  Why,  I  love  her,  of  course  !  " 

said  he. 


The  Squire  has  friends  by  the  dozen  still, 

And  restlessly  visits  them,  here  and  there  ; 
But  his  heart  turns  back,  with  a  deathly  chill, 
To  a  low  green  mound  on  a  daisied  hill, 
And  he  thinks  of  the  touch  of  her  wind-kissed 
hair. 


UNREST. 

AWAIT  thou  the  voyage  ;   the  great  tide  up- 
*          ward  swelling 

Comes  from  a  deep  which  lies  beyond  the  bar  ; 
What  though  its  shores  be  hid  ?  It  needs  no 

telling 
That  other  lands  there  are. 

Nay — wilt  thou  stand  in  fruitless  expectation 
Straining  thine  eyes  across  the  voiceless  sea  ? 

Turn  back  ;  the  hither  shores  give  explanation 
Of  those  where  thou  wouldst  be. 

Sweeter  than  these  ?  Yea  !  but  with  kindred 
sweetness. 

Fairer — ah,  far  !  but  wilt  thou  know  how  fair  ? 
If  here  thou  find  but  void  and  incompleteness, 

Will  all  seem  perfect  there  ? 

Where  wilt  thou  find  capacity  for  pleasure, 
Filled  with  a  sting  of  long  unrest  and  pain  ? 

Wilt  thou  take  there  from  all,  and  give  no  measure 
Of  knowledge  back  again  ? 
19 


20  SUMMER-FALLO  W. 

Vain  to  expend  the  moments  in  deploring  : 
Time  comes  when  thou  shalt  pass  beyond  the 
deep. 

Wilt  thou  go  hence  afar,  without  exploring 
What  wealth  this  shore  may  keep  ? 

Ah,  wait  the  voyage  !  nor  spend  the  time  in 

sighing 

Over  the  unknown  deep.     Sometime,  its  swell 
Shall  bear  thee  forth.     Till  then,  see,  near  thee 

lying 
Fair  fields,  unknown,  as  well ! 


A  DAYDREAM. 

"DETWEEN  two  rippled  fields  of  grain— 
Two  broad  fields,  lying  in  the  sun — 
There  creeps  a  narrow  country  lane, 
Where  thrushes  love  to  sing  their  strain 
And  robins  call,  when  day  is  done. 

And  down  the  lane  is  cool  and  sweet ; 

The  sparrows  sing,  adown  the  lane  ; 
Above,  the  arching  branches  meet, 
And  on  the  grass  beneath  your  feet 

Their  shadows  stir  and  weave  again. 

And  through  the  warm  and  sleepy  air 

Come  faint,  half  fancied  sounds,  that  tell 
Of  summer,  brooding  everywhere  : 
The  call  of  quail,  and  here  and  there 
The  distant  clinking  of  a  bell. 

I  say  "  they  come  "  :  for  since,  with  you, 
I  dreamed  a  happy  dream  one  day, 

And  waking,  found  the  dream  was  true — 

It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  knew 
That  summer  lingered  there  alway  : 

21 


22  S  UMMER-FA  LLO  W. 

That  bars  of  sunlight  always  lay 

Across  the  pathway's  checkered  shade  ; 
And  if  I  lingered  there  to-day, 
I  still  should  see  the  tall  grain  sway, 
And  hear  the  lisping  noise  it  made. 

And  so  I  always  see  you  stand — 

With  sunlight  falling  on  your  hair, 
With  sunlight  over  all  the  land 
Because  of  you  :    see,  hand  in  hand, 
You  and  the  summer  standing  there  ! 


HER  MOUTH. 

\\T HAT  shall  I  to  my  Lady's  mouth  compare? 
*  *       No  tender,  trembling,  dewy  bud  of  spring, 

No  small  soft-breasted  bird,  nor  anything 
That  I  can  think  of,  is  so  sweet  and  fair  ! 
Two  perfect  lips,  of  equal  beauty  rare — 

No  wonder  they  so  close  together  cling  ; 

Each  feels  the  other  such  a  perfect  thing 
That  scarce  a  moment's  parting  can  they  bear. 

So,  when  she  smiles,  a  little  tender  pain 
But  half  suggested,  hovers  round  her  lips, 

And  lovingly  they  haste  to  meet  again  : 
Yet  not  so  swiftly,  but  between  them  slips 

One  gleam  of  pearly  light.     Ah  !  could  she  care 

Knough  to  let  me  kiss  them — would  I  dare  ? 


HER  HAIR. 

T  F  I  could  liken  it  to  burnished  gold 

A     Or  glossy  blackness  of  the  raven's  wing, 

It  would  not  be  so  wonderful  a  thing, 
For  then  its  loveliness  were  easy  told. 
Soft  wayward  locks,  so  daintily  controlled  ! 

A  rarer  charm  by  far  to  them  doth  cling  ; 

Bright  nets  are  they,  for  light's  imprisoning, 
Whose  tender  depths  entangled  sunbeams  hold. 

Like  clear  brown  water,  shimmering  in  the  sun, 
Or  dusky  woods,  where  truant  sunbeams  play  ; 

lyike  golden  dusk,  that  comes  when  day  is  done, 
Yet  shines  with  half  the  lingering  light  of  day — 

Nay — even  these  are  less  divinely  fair, 

So  perfect  is  the  beauty  of  her  hair  ! 


HER  EYES. 

T  COULD  not  tell  the  color  of  her  eyes— 

I  never  searched  their  tender  depths,    and 

thought 

Of  color — nor  indeed  could  think  of  aught 
But  the  sweet  soul,  which  just  behind  them  lies 
And  shines  out  through  them  ;  so  their  color  flies 
And  comes,  with  changing  feeling.     We  are 

taught 

In  Eastern  tales,  that  gems  of  wondrous  sort 
(The  magic  talismans  which  Caliphs  prize) 
Change,  as  beholders  change,  now  dark,  now 

bright, 

Yet  shine  forever  with  an  inward  light 
Like  deep  sea-water.      Even  so  these  twin 
Sweet  sisters  of  the  sweeter  soul  within. 
Ah,  Love,  that  makest  day  !  my  sun  shall  rise 
With  lovelight's  dawning  in  those  lovely  eyes. 


AFTER  MOONRISE. 

A    WASTE  of  moon- white,  wind-swept  haze 
•ff1   Where  few  faint  stars,  wide  strewn  and  dim, 

Gleam  fitfully  :  the  eastern  rim, 
White  glaring,  veils  and  yet  betrays, 
lyow  lined  with  bars  of  pallid  gold, 

The  rising  of  the  moon  ;  and  clear 
The  wind  cries  on,  through  oaks  that  hold 

To  leaves  of  some  forgotten  year. 

Pale  meadows,  silent,  half  obscure 

Half  plain  in  soft,  uncertain  light, 

Give  back  no  voices  to  the  night ; 
The  winds  sound  all  alone  through  moor 
And  upland  ;  silent,  black  and  deep 

lyike  shadows,  stand  the  groups  of  pine  : 
And  hedges,  gray  and  ghostly,  creep 

Along  the  roadway's  whitened  line. 

Then  suddenly,  the  swift  moon  leaps 
To  some  clear  space  above  the  drifts 
Of  snow-banked  cloud ;  behind  the  rifts 

The  stars  shine  out  from  darker  deeps, 

And  all  the  still,  uncertain  land 
With  flooding  moonlight  overfills ; 
26 


AFTER  MOONRISE. 

Until  far-off,  faint-shining,  stand 
The  girdling  outlines  of  the  hills. 

But  all  the  quiet  of  the  night 
Is  stirred  by  vagueness  of  unrest, 
A  nameless  waiting,  half-confessed  ; 

The  part  expectancy  of  sight 

Or  voice  of  things  beyond  :  it  seems 
Too  infinite  to  comprehend, 

Too  beautiful  to  spend  in  dreams, 
Too  perfect  to  be  self-contained : 

A  part  of  some  diviner  whole — 

Some  dreamy  ocean,  stretching  far 

Beyond  the  dim  horizon  bar 
Which  bounds  the  feelings  of  the  soul. 
We  half  expect  some  sail  to  lift 

And  bring  us  news  from  wonderlands, 
But  wait  in  vain.     There  is  but  drift 

And  froth  of  fancy  on  the  sands. 

No  strange  new  voice  to  wake  and  cry  ; 

No  vision  of  an  unknown  shore — 

The  silent  moonlight,  nothing  more  ! 
White  lines  of  cloud  across  the  sky, 
White  cornfields,  where  the  passing  air 

Goes  rustling  by  the  standing  sheaves  ; 
A  gleam  of  branches,  gaunt  and  bare, 

And  chatter  of  dead,  clinging  leaves. 


ALINE. 

A  CROSS  the  whittled  desks  of  pine, 
^^     Time-blackened,  worn,  and  hacked  afresh 
With  rude  attempt  at  name  and  line, 
The  sunlight  falls  in  moving  mesh. 

It  glints  on  wavy  dust-blurred  glass ; 

And  through  the  open  sash  below, 
With  thoughts  and  eyes,  a  barefoot  class 

In  tempting  fields  a-truant  go. 

And  past  the  door,  the  summer  breeze 
Blows  idly  surging  waves  of  noise  ; 

Brings  in  the  lazy  hum  of  bees, 
Bears  out  the  drone  of  lazy  boys  ; 

Brings  fragrance  of  the  summer  rain 
That  drove  me  in,  so  sweet  and  cool 

That  I,  though  rain  has  ceased,  remain, 
Forgot  by  teacher  and  by  school. 

Forgot,  and  musing  on  the  names 

That  in  the  worn  old  bench  I  see 
Deep-cut  and  black— "  Aline  "  and  "  James," 

And  then  two  hearts,  and  "53." 

28 


ALINE.  29 

Aline  and  James,  and  forty  years 
Two  hearts  together  !     Did  you  know 

The  flame  that  warms,  or  fire  that  sears, 
Aline  and  James,  those  years  ago  ? 

And  were  you  pretty  then,  Aline  ? 

Aline,  to-day  of  silver  brows, 
When  you  and  he  stole  off  unseen 

To  tell  your  love  and  breathe  your  vows  ? 

The  girl  with  braided  hair,  and  dress 
Of  print  or  gingham,  had  not  seen 

What  things  of  life  and  death  must  press 
Their  stamp  upon  you  now,  Aline  ! 

And  did  your  full  ripe  womanhood 

Grow  sweet  with  smiles  and  soft  with  tears, 

Or  did  the  bitter  choke  the  good, 
And  sour  the  fruit  in  forty  years  ? 

How  would  the  pictured  lives  agree — 
The  one  you  dreamed  of,  looking  through 

This  door,  some  day  like  this,  maybe, 
And  that  which  came  to  him  and  you  ? 

For  years  are  long  and  grief  is  fleet, 

And  life  or  love  may  fade  away  ; 
Perhaps  two  paths  were  found  by  feet 

That  sought  but  one,  that  summer  day  ! 


30  S  UMMER-FALLO  W. 

Perhaps  your  dream  dissolved,  or  met 

A  rude  awakening  ;  or  maybe 
The  grass  above  your  grave  was  wet 

By  tears,  long  dried  since  fifty-three. 

But  if  you  ever  pass  and  see 

The  sunlight  in  the  open  door, 
And  think  of  days  when  you  and  he 

Were  schoolmates,  forty  years  before, 

Which  sense  is  first,  of  grief  or  pain  ? 

You  sometimes  think,  perhaps  with  tears, 
Things  change  ;  but  here,  old  things  remain 

And  you,  Aline,  are  changed  with  years. 

And  though  the  time  has  passed  away 
When  I  might  meet  you,  yet  I  dream 

Of  how  you  must  have  looked  that  day— 
A  fair-haired  girl,  amid  the  gleam 

Of  sweet  wet  fields,  and  drowsy  hum 
Of  school,  and,  hardly  yet  foreseen, 

The  glimmer  of  a  love  to  come 
And  wake  your  womanhood,  Aline  ! 


LIVING. 

worked  afar  and  alone,  in  the  solitude 
Of  a  waste  of  snow,  where  the  gray  wolf 

howled  for  food  ; 

And  one  went  out  from  a  softly  lighted  hall 
Whose  velvet  carpets  silenced  his  own  foot-fall. 

One  toiled  where  the  whirr  and  scream  of  the 

wheels  o'erhead 
Drowned  out  all  sense  but  the  need  of  daily 

bread ; 

And  one,  in  a  quiet  room,  breathed  in  again 
The  thousand  thoughts  of  a  thousand  thinking 

men. 

And  one  came  forth  from  a  black  and  oozing  mine 
To  look  on  the  night,  and  the  silent  hills  of  pine  ; 
While  another,  kneeling  on  altar  steps,  beheld 
The  pomp  of  mass,  as  the  sacred  music  swelled. 

The  soldier  dreamed,  and,  his  dream  was  dealing 

death ; 

The  surgeon  toiled  to  prolong  the  faltering  breath  ; 
31 


32  SUMMER-FALLO  W. 

And  ever,  by  day  and  by  night,  in  the  forge  and 
loom, 

Some  men  produced  that  other  men  might  con- 
sume. 

And  he  who  drew  from  his  life  the  highest  good, 
Was  the  man  who  builded  the  best  his  own  man- 
hood. 


WHITE  CRAPE. 

V\nTHOUT,  a  parched,  sun-beaten  hill, 

A  dusty  roadway,  long  and  white, 
The  summer  glare  of  heat  and  light : 
Within,  a  tiny  coffined  mite 
Waxlike  and  still  ; 

A  whispered  hush,  and  bated  breath — 
The  unfamiliar  sense  that  steals 
With  noise  of  idly  passing  wheels, 
Or  hum  of  insects  through  the  fields 
Mindless  of  death. 

The  sounds  of  children's  words  at  play 
Come  sharp  across  the  hot  still  air 
And  reach  the  darkened  chamber,  where 
The  mother  sits.     Her  baby  there 
Played,  yesterday. 

' '  Poor  babe  !  "  we  say  ;  "  a  blest  relief ; 
He  would  have  learned,  like  all  the  rest, 
Precocious  sin."     But  will  her  breast 
Which  little  baby  hands  caressed 
Feel  less  of  grief? 

3  33 


34  SUMMER-FALLO  W. 

Perhaps  she  hardly  knows  the  thought 
We  speak  of ;  does  not  realize 
The  barren  evil  that  should  rise 
Before  him  :  only,  there  he  lies  ! 
And  she  has  naught — 

No  higher  thoughts,  that  she  may  set 
Against  her  loss.     Some  neighbor's  phrase 
Of  awkward  pity  :  then,  the  maze 
Of  sordid  cares  through  sordid  days 
Till  she  forget ! 


EVENTIDE. 

the  bars  and  come  ; 
Between  the  golden  and  the  dark 
While  one  unrestful  meadow-lark 
Pipes  out,  and  else  the  fields  are  dumb, 
Follow  the  cattle  home  : 

Down  through  the  warmth  and  rest 
Of  faint,  soft,  quiet  fields,  that  lie 
Rose-lighted  from  a  summer  sky  ; 

And  orchard-bordered  lanes,  where  best 

The  robins  love  to  nest : 

Over  the  clovered  hill 
Where  whirrs  some  long-belated  dove, 
And  past  the  brush-lot  rabbits  love  ; 

Through  woodland  growing  dusk,  and  still 

Save  for  the  whippoorwill : 

And  so  across  the  stream 

Which  murmurs  round  the  stepping-stones  ; 

While  gentle,  intermitting  tones 
Of  mellowed  evening  cow-bells  seem 
Part  of  a  summer  dream. 

35 


36  SUMMER-FALLO  W. 

I,et  down  the  bars,  and  wait 
Till  up  the  softly  glowing  lane 
The  last  of  all  the  lazy  train, 
With  lowings  to  its  distant  mate, 
Has  loitered  through  the  gate. 

The  cows  are  home  at  last. 

Ah,  me  !  it  seems  so  short  a  while 
Since  you  stood  waiting  at  the  stile 

Each  evening,  till  I  drove  them  past, 

And  made  the  gate-bars  fast. 

And  still,  as  long  ago, 
When,  just  as  dew  begins  to  fall, 
I  hear  the  long-familiar  call 

And  watch  the  cattle  coming  slow, 

It  seems  almost  as  though 

The  old,  glad  days  were  here  ; 
And  I  should  find  you,  as  of  old, 
Waiting,  between  the  dusk  and  gold  ; 

It  seems  to  bring  you  back  so  near, 

This  sunset  silence,  dear  ! 

And  some  sweet  evening,  when 
Old  dreams  stray  back  again  to  you, 
I  '11  pass  the  open  gateway  too  ; 

And  when  the  bars  are  up  again, 

I  shall  be  with  you,  then  ! 


A  MOOD. 

rj  ^O  set  the  murmur  of  a  brook  to  words, 

•*•         To  catch  the  time  of  drooping  boughs  that 

swing, 

A  motive  from  the  floating  clouds,  or  bring 
To  urban  ears  the  song  of  woodland  birds : 

To  throw  across  the  printed  page  a  gleam 
Of  country  sunlight,  or,  perchance,  to  bind 
And  hold  in  spell  the  singing  of  the  wind, 

And  weaving  shadows  by  a  forest  stream  ; 

To  catch  one  thought  from  all  the  wide  extent 
Of  thoughtful  nature :  'mid  the  drive  and  care 
Of  towns,  to  bring  one  breath  of  sweeter  air — 

That  were  enough,  and  I  should  be  content ! 


37 


WEST  WIND. 

OI/OW,  bright  wind,  across  the  fallows, 

Rustle  through  the  wheat ! 
Chase  the  clouds  till  sunshine  follows, 
Glance  among  the  swirling  swallows  ; 

Blow,  where  rabbits'  feet 
Brush  the  dew  in  clovered  hollows  ; 

Waft  the  thistle  fleet. 

Blow,  till  branches  sway  and  quiver  ! 

Weave  the  shade  and  sun  ; 
Blow  through  water-reeds  ashiver, 
Dance  and  laugh  across  the  river 

Till  the  ripples  run, 
Changing  all  the  blue  to  silver — 

Sun  and  stream  in  one  ! 

Float  the  hawk,  slow  wheeling,  single, 

Through  the  shining  skies  ; 
Chant  among  the  trees,  and  mingle 
Wash  of  waves  on  far-off  shingle 

With  their  melodies ; 
Whisper  down  the  fern-filled  dingle 

Till  the  thrush  replies. 
38 


WEST    WIND.  39 

Breathe  through  drowsy  meadows,  nooning 

In  a  flood  of  light ; 
Fan  the  faint  wild  roses,  swooning  ; 
Catch  the  brook  and  bird  songs,  tuning 

All  their  notes  aright ; 
Sing  to  wakeful  marshes,  crooning 

Lullabies,  all  night ! 


VACATION. 

T  WISH  that  I  were  a  bird— don't  you  ? 
4     To  sit  all  day  in  the  branches,  swinging  ; 
I  wish  that  all  that  I  had  to  do 
Was  to  roam  in  the  woods,  and  that  all  I  knew 
Was  the  glad  little  song  I  was  singing. 

I  wish  that  I  were  a  flower,  to  sway 

In  some  sweet  field,  where  a  stream  was  flowing ; 
To  have  no  lessons  at  all  to  say, 
But  to  watch  how  the  white  clouds  floated  away, 

And  to  sweeten  the  sweet  wind's  blowing. 

I  'd  like  to  sail  with  the  breeze,  and  blow 
Through  wide  blue  skies  where  the  clouds  run 
races : 

To  strew  the  orchards  with  summer  snow, 

And  murmur  a  lullaby,  soft  and  low, 
In  quiet  and  shady  places. 

I  think  that  flowers  can  see — don't  you  ? 
And  the  soft  white  clouds,  I  am  sure,  are  play- 
ing : 

40 


VACATION.  41 

The  winds  can  talk  to  the  grasses,  too, 

For  I  've  listened  and  watched,  and  I  'm  sure 

they  do ; 
Why,  I  almost  can  tell  what  they  're  saying. 

And  when  I  sit  in  the  fields,  and  see 

The  long  grass  wave,  when  the  breezes  blow  it, 
I  'm  just  as  glad  as  a  girl  can  be  ; 
And  the  daisies  are  glad,  too,  it  seems  to  me, 

And  nod  their  heads,  to  show  it. 


THISTLEDOWN. 

the  fields  where  the  daisies  grow, 
Over  the  flushing  clover, 
A  host  of  the  tiniest  fairies  go — 
Dancing,  balancing  to  and  fro, 
Rolling  and  tumbling  over. 

Where  do  they  come  from,  and  where  do  they 
stray 

All  in  the  summer  weather  ? 
Maybe  they  're  fairy  children  at  play, 
Or  wee  cloud  babies,  just  born  to-day, 

And  learning  to  fly  together. 

They  might  (who  knows?)  be  the  milk-white 
steeds 

Some  elfin  hunters  are  riding  ; 
Or  else  the  flock  that  a  brownie  feeds  ; 
And  he,  perhaps,  is  among  the  weeds, 

Or  down  in  a  flower  cup  hiding. 

Could  they  be  smoke  from  a  firefly's  flame  ? 
Or  bubbles  the  fays  are  blowing  ? 
42 


THIS  TLEDO  WN.  43 

Maybe  they  're  balls  in  some  goblin  game, 
Woven  of  dew,  on  a  cobweb  frame, 
Which  elfin  players  are  throwing. 

Quivering,  balancing,  drifting  by, 

Floating  in  sun  and  shadow — 
Maybe  the  souls  of  the  flowers  that  die 
Wander,  like  this,  to  the  summer  sky 

Over  a  happy  meadow. 

Far  in  the  fields  is  the  sunlight  glow, 

Faint  is  the  scent  of  clover  ; 
Even  the  murmur  of  wind  is  low, 
And  the  down  is  lazy,  and  still,  and  slow, 

And  stops  to  balance  and  hover. 


LONGING. 

,  glad,  gold  sun  !  can  you  look  away 
Across  the  hills  where   the  south  winds 

blow, 

And  see  if  the  crocus  is  up  to-day, 
Or  violet  flowers  begin  to  grow  ? 

Oh,  warm,  soft  wind  !  have  you  heard  the  sound 
Of  leaf-buds  talking  about  the  spring, 

Or  wild-flowers  stirring  beneath  the  ground  ? 
The  brooks,  I  know,  have  begun  to  sing. 

I^ast  night  was  so  full  of  the  chirp  of  birds 
That  I  think  the  moon  must  have  heard  it  too  ; 

White  moon,   were    they   happy   because    they 

heard 
The  springtime  calling  them  while  they  flew  ? 

Oh,  far,  faint  hills,  where  the  sunlight  lies  ! 

Can  you  see  anything  yet  of  spring  ? 
It  is  time  the  bloodroot  unclosed  its  eyes 

And  dogtooth-violet  bells  should  swing. 
44 


LONGING.  45 

The  wake-robin  ought  to  be  up  and  bright : 
Oh,  phlox  and  larkspur,  please  don't  delay  ! 

Anemones,  open  your  cups  of  white  ! 
The  winter  is  over — 't  will  soon  be  May  ! 

The  woods  are  full  of  a  rustling  sound  ; 

No  wonder  the  thrush  and  the  bluebird  sing  ! 
For  they  follow  the  summer  the  whole  year  round, 

And  I  am  waiting,  waiting  for  spring  ! 


SOUTH  WIND. 


the  fields  where  the  dew  was  wet, 
Over  a  meadow  with  daisies  set, 
Shaking  the  pearls  in  the  spider's  net, 

The  soft  south  wind  came  stealing. 
It  was  full  of  the  scent  of  the  sweet  wild-rose  ; 
And  it  lingered  along,  where  the  streamlet  flows, 
Till  it  made  the  forget-me-nots'  eyes  unclose, 
And  started  the  bluebells  pealing. 

Under  the  measureless  blue  of  the  sky, 

Drifting  the  silvery  cloudlets  by, 

Drinking  the  dew-brimmed  flower  cups  dry, 

The  warm  south  wind  was  blowing. 
It  was  sweet  with  the  breath  of  a  thousand  springs, 
And  it  sang  to  the  grasses,  as  ever  it  sings, 
With  a  sound  like  the  moving  of  myriad  wings 

Or  the  whisper  of  wild-flowers  growing. 

Over  the  fields,  in  the  evening  glow, 
Stirring  the  trees  as  the  sun  sank  low, 
Swaying  the  meadow-grass  to  and  fro, 
A  breeze  from  the  south  came  creeping. 
46 


THE  SOUTH   WIND.  Afl 

It  rocked  the  birds  in  their  drowsy  nest ; 
It  cradled  the  blue-eyed  grass  to  rest  ; 
And  its  good-night  kisses  were  softly  pressed 
On  pale  wild-roses,  sleeping. 

And  only  the  stars  and  the  fireflies  knew 

How  the  south  wind  murmured,  the  whole  night 

through, 
In  scented  fields  where  the  clover  grew 

And  soft  white  mists  were  wreathing. 
For  it  stole  away,  when  the  night  was  spent, 
And  none  could  follow  the  way  it  went ; 
But  the  wild-flowers  knew  what  the  wind's  song 
meant, 

As  they  waked  to  its  last  low  breathing. 


A  SUMMER  SONG. 

,  happy,  happy  summer  sun 
And  happy  silent  sand  ! 
Oh,  little  happy  waves  that  run 

And  lap  along  the  land  ! 
Oh,  golden  glow  among  the  trees  ! 

Oh,  breath  of  sea  and  pine  ! 
The  rippling  wind  and  wash  of  seas 
Shall  join  their  song  with  mine. 

A  song  to  suit  the  dappled  sky 

Above  a  dimpled  sea  ; 
To  blend  the  notes  of  birds  that  fly 

Across  the  shining  lea  ; 
A  song  that  tells  of  dreamy  days 

Along  a  drowsy  shore, 
And  croons  to  tiny  sleepy  bays 

Till  they  can  hear  no  more. 

A  lulling  song,  that  bears  a  spell 

Too  slumberful  for  speech  ; 
The  heaving  of  a  quiet  swell 

That  slips  along  a  beach  : 
Just  such  a  nodding  lullaby, 

So  soft  and  warm  and  deep, 
That  you  and  I  and  waves  and  sky 

Together  fall  asleep ! 
48 


THE  SANDMAN'S  SONG. 

CLEEPY  pussy   willows   that   nod   along   the 

^       stream, 

Drowsy  little  buttercups  that  dream  and  dream 

and  dream ; 

Little  downy  birdies,  asleep  within  the  nest, 
And  a  tiny  sleepy  baby  that  lies  on  mother's 

breast. 

Little  water-frogs  sing  the  pussies  off  to  sleep, 
Buttercups  are  nodding  to  the  crickets  * '  peep  a 

peep!" 

Softly  sing  the  breezes  to  hush  the  nestling  birds, 
And  mother  sings   her  baby  a  song   of  baby 

words. 

Fireflies  go  tiptoeing  around  the  willow  beds ; 
Buttercups  are  watched  by  all  the  stars  above 

their  heads : 
The  great  gold  moon  sails  over  to  shield  the 

birds  from  harm, 
And  mother  rocks  the  baby  and  holds  it  on  her 

arm. 
4  49 


50  SUMMER-FALLO  W. 

When  morning  calls  the  pussies  across  the  wak- 
ing brook, 

And  all  the  golden  blossoms  unclose  their  eyes  to 
look, 

When  birdies  wake  and  sing,  in  their  nest  upon 
the  tree, 

Why,  what  a  happy  morning  will  mother's  baby 
see! 


MIDSUMMER. 

T   KNOW  of  a  hill  where  the  bracken  grows  ; 
And  the  white  clouds,  sailing  the  wide,  wide 

sky, 
Seem  skimming  its  top  when  the    west  wind 

blows, 

And  the  warm  sun  sleeps  where  the  ferns  are 
high. 

And  I  know  a  nest  where  a  girl  may  hide — 

A  small  soft  nest  for  a  sleepy  day, 
With  a  great  warm  boulder  on  either  side, 

And  before  it  the  bracken  stretching  away  : 

A  drowsy  cushion  of  deep  gray  moss ; 

A  nook  that  none  but  the  sun  can  see  ; 
With  the  scent  of  the  sweet-fern  blowing  across, 

And  the  breeze  and  the  bracken  to  talk  to  me. 

And  I  could  be  happy  there,  all  day  through, 
Just  lying  and  watching  the  shadows  sail, 

Till,  living  so  much  as  the  fairies  do, 
It  seems  as  if  all  were  a  fairy  tale, 


52  SUMMER-FALLOW. 

And  this  were  my  palace,  and  I  were  queen  : 
And  it  seems  sometimes,  if  I  just  should  try, 

With  the  seed  of  the  bracken  to  make  me  unseen, 
That  the  wind  might  blow  me  across  the  sky, 

Afar  and  away  in  the  wide  clear  blue. 

And  yet  out  of  all  things,  the  best  I  know 
Is  to  dream  in  the  sunshine,  a  whole  day  through, 

Where  the  moss  and  the  bracken  and  sweet-fern 
grow. 


THE  NIGHT  WIND. 

C  OFTLY  the  night  wind  blew  over  fields  where 

the  clover  was  sleeping, 
Softly  the  clover  stirred  in  its  dreams  as  the 

wind  went  by, 
And  the  night  wind  hushed  it  to  rest,  and  still 

more  silently  creeping 
Over  the  dewy  hills,  stole  into  the  open  sky. 

Softly  the  flowers  gave  up  their  dead,  and  the 

night  wind  took  them  ; 
Faint  vanished  scents,  and  souls  of  butterflies 

lay  on  its  breast : 
Shadowy  songs  of  birds,  and  sunbeams  whose 

sisters  forsook  them, 

Or  left  them,  lost  in  the  woods,  when  the  sun 
went  down  in  the  west. 

Only  the  evening  primrose  waked  in  the  misty 

hollow ; 

Only  the  night-moths  knew  how  the  night  wind 
whispered  away ; 

53 


54  SUMMER-FALLOW. 

But  neither  the  moths  nor  the  primrose  told,  nor 

did  any  follow, 

To  see  how  it  silently  bore  the  ghosts  and 
dreams  of  the  day. 

Far,  far  out  of  the  world  the  wind  with  its  freight 

is  blowing, 
To  the  golden  lands,  far-lying,  which  float  in 

the  western  sky : 
And  oft,  as  the  sun  goes  down,  you  may  see  their 

shores  faint  glowing — 

The  shores  of  the  land  of  fairy  dreams,  as  the 
evening  wind  steals  by. 


A  SLEEPY  SONG. 

LOW,  slow,  breezes  blow, 

Birds  in  the  nest  are  swinging  ; 
Over  the  meadow  the  fireflies  go, 
Each  with  his  tiny  lantern  aglow  ; 
And  down  where  the  bulrush  and  cat-tails  grow, 
The  frogs  and  the  crickets  are  singing. 

Still,  still,  are  hollow  and  hill  ; 

The  flags  by  the  river  are  swaying 
With  drowsiest  whispers  ;  but  round  the  mill 
The  swallows  are  silent ;  they  had  their  fill 
Of  romping  all  day  with  the  wind,  until 

They  all  grew  tired  of  playing. 

Rest,  rest,  birds  in  the  nest ! 

Flowers  in  the  meadow  are  dreaming, 
Wee  heads  nodding  on  each  wee  breast ; 
And,  one  by  one,  the  stars  in  the  west 
Are  softly  and  quietly  sinking  to  rest, 

And  the  fairies  homeward  are  streaming. 
55 


56  SUMMER-FALLOW. 

Sleep,  sleep,  quiet  and  deep, 

Quieter,  deeper  is  sinking 
Over  the  level  where  white  mists  creep  : 
And  the  sound  is  so  low  of  the  river's  sweep, 
That  you  almost  can  hear  the  willows  weep, 

And  the  thoughts  the  daisies  are  thinking. 


TWO  LULLABIES. 

,  close,  baby  eyes,  close  ! 
Mother  is  near  to  you ;  sleep  while  she  sings; 
All  of  the  slumber-land  road  she  knows — 
Sleep,  while  the  cradle-bed  swings, 

My  baby ! 

Rest,  rest,  baby  hands,  rest ! 

Mother  is  near  to  you  ;  sleep  by  her  side. 
Mother  and  loving  and  home  are  the  best — 

Nothing  but  good  shall  betide 

My  baby ! 


O  lyEBP,  baby  !  mother  is  waking. 

Sleep,  sleep  ! 
Father  is  out  where  the  billows  are  breaking, 

Out  on  the  deep. 
Sleep! 

Rest,  baby  !  mother  will  hold  you. 
Rest,  rest ! 

57 


58  SUMMER-FALLOW. 

Safe  in  her  arms  she  will  rock  you,  and  fold  you 
Close  to  her  breast — 
Rest! 

Wake,  baby  !  father  is  calling — 

Hear !  hear  ! 
Father  is  coming  to  me,  to  his  darling — 

Father  is  near  ! 

He  is  here ! 


THE  TRUE  SONG. 


C  HAlyly  it  breathe  of  love,  that  ties 
^     Happy  hearts  together  ? 
Praise  a  little  maiden's  eyes, 

Sing  the  summer  weather  ? 
L,ull  a  baby  off  to  sleep  ? 

Or,  in  stronger  fashion, 
Touch  on  higher  things,  and  sweep 

All  the  depths  of  passion  ? 

Shall  it  murmur  soft  and  low, 

Like  the  wind  in  May  ? 
Shall  it  trip  along,  or  go 

Gravely  on  its  way  ? 
Shall  it  be  a  brook  that  glides 

Over  mossy  stones, 
Or  shall  swing  of  mighty  tides 

Kcho  in  its  tones  ? 

Who  shall  sing  ?  a  student  skilled, 
Apt  at  rhyme  and  measure, 

Or  a  simple  youth,  heart  filled 
With  his  heartsome  pleasure  ? 
59 


60  SUMMER-FALLO  W. 

Must  a  grace  of  style  and  form 

Beautify  the  metre, 
Or  is  homely  verse  more  warm, 

And  the  ballad  sweeter  ? 

Which  shall  be  the  test  and  proof  ? 

One,  or  none,  or  all ! 
lyife  the  warp,  and  love  the  woof, 

Thousand  webs  may  fall 
From  the  busy  loom  of  song  : 

Only  this  the  art- 
He  who  makes  the  fabric  strong 

Weaves  a  living  heart ! 


APRIL. 

A  CROSS  a  slope  of  gently  greening  sward, 
**     Where  yet  the  blossom  tempts  no  butterfly, 
The  soft  spring  sunlight  shines,  and  lengthens 

toward 
The  western  sky. 

There  is  no  summer  fulness  in  the  winds — 
Only  the  dreamy  stirring  of  the  dawn 

When  sweet  ecstatic  spring  awakes,  and  finds 
The  winter  gone  : 

And  all  the  apple-boughs,  which  bud  anew 
With  throbbing  life,  are  touched  with  golden 
sheen, 

As  if  a  lingering  sunlight  shimmered  through 
Their  tender  green. 

Clear  stand  the  trees  on  yonder  orchard  hill ; 
Clear  stands  each  feathered  spray  against  the 

sky; 

And  on  the  shining  slope,  distinct  and  still, 
Their  shadows  lie. 

61 


62  SUMMER-FALLOW. 

Not  deep  and  black,  as  in  an  August  sun, 

But  soft  and  mellow  on  the  soft  spring  ground  ; 
Shot  with  the  golden  light,  with  which  each  one 
hemmed  around. 


Oh,  wondrous  Spring  !  so  stirred  by  secret  thrill 
Of  life,  that  e'en  the  shadows  shine  with  gold  ; 

And  softened  warmth  glows  through  the  branches, 

till 
Their  leaves  unfold. 

But  through  the  happiness,  though  robins  sing, 
Though  pear-buds  sweeten  all  the  April  air, 

The  strange,  delicious  sadness  of  the  spring 
Is  everywhere. 

Ah,  woe  !  that  joy  can  come  so  near  to  pain  ; 

Oh,  joy  !  that  grief  can  hold  so  much  of  bliss—- 
That winter  waiting  may  at  last  attain 

To  days  like  this  ! 


IN  IDLE  TIME. 

T  N  sleepy  time  of  summer  days, 

When  fields  are  lulled  by  crickets  chirring, 

And  far-off  hills  where  cattle  graze, 
Give  sound  of  cow-bells  faint  recurring, 
When  scarce  the  lazy  wind  is  stirring, 

And  every  sailing  shadow  stays  : 

In  time  when  fields  are  idly  sunning, 
And  brown-eyed  yellow  daisies  drowse, 

When  pebbled  streams  scarce  ripple,  running 
Around  the  feet  of  standing  cows  ; 
In  idle  time  of  scythes  and  plows, 

When  thrushes  hide,  the  sunlight  shunning  ; 

When  drowsy  locusts  sing  a  tune 

In  ceaseless  round  of  dry  intoning, 
And  far  afield,  all  afternoon, 

Some  mournful  dove  makes  frequent  moaning  ; 

When  greedy  bees  forbear  their  droning 
To  feast  in  orchards,  windfall  strewn  : 

In  idlest  time  of  summer  weather, 
There  sometimes  comes  an  idle  dream 
63 


64  SUMMER-FALLO IV. 

Of  childish  days  :  a  question,  whether 
They  seemed  as  glad  as  now  they  seem  ; 
A  longing  to  reverse  the  stream 

Of  days,  and  journey  back  together. 

Then,  strange  sweet  mysteries  surrounded 
Our  childish  thoughts  of  earth  and  sky 

Beyond  the  old  stone  walls  that  bounded 
Our  fields,  we  hardly  cared  to  pry  ; 
And  framed  our  own  philosophy, 

In  which  all  nature  was  expounded. 

And  though  the  child  thoughts  faded,  till 
They  merged  in  duller  common-senses, 

We  yet  experience  a  thrill 

In  calling  back  our  wild  "  pretenses," 
The  rocky  hill  beyond  the  fences, 

The  wading  place  below  the  mill — 

The  golden  autumn  sunlight,  sleeping 
Along  the  hills.     Were  we,  or  no, 

More  glad  ?    Or  does  our  memory,  keeping 
The  sweet,  let  all  the  bitter  go  ? 
And  shall  we  not  hereafter  know 

The  joy  of  all,  without  the  weeping  ? 


INSPIRA  TION. 

^HERE  came,  one  day,  to  my  lips  a  song  : 

The  lips  but  aided  to  give  it  birth, 
But  a  voice  that  sang  in  my  heart  was  strong, 
And  the  life  it  gave  was  the  song's  whole  worth. 

And  I  laughed,  and  said  :  ' '  I  will  sing  again 
Another  time,  in  the  same  sweet  tone ' ' ; 

But  ah  !  't  is  the  spirit  who  sings — not  men  : 
The  song  was  dead,  which  I  sang  alone  ! 


SILENCE. 

A    SHOT,  and  the  song  was  stilled  ; 
^*     A  frost,  and  the  bud  was  killed  ; 
A  drought,  and  the  sprouting  seed  was  parched 
With  its  promise  unfulfilled. 

And  the  singer  returned  to  clay 

And  was  as  he  was  before  ; 
The  leaves  that  mouldered  away 

But  added  to  nature's  store ; 
And  out  of  the  seed  that  dissolved,  some  day 

A  seed  might  be  fed  once  more. 

But  where  was  the  singing  ?    Slain 

By  a  single  leaden  grain  ? 

Should  the  will  that  guided  be  wholly  lost 

And  each  atom  it  swayed  remain  ? 
The  life  succumb  to  the  heat  or  frost 

That  dragged  at  its  robe  in  vain  ? 


66 


LIFE. 

T  S  it  a  river  flowing  to  the  sea 

•*•     That,  when  the  bar  is  crossed,  has  reached 

its  goal  ? 
Is  there  no  further  progress  for  the  soul, 

But  rest  and  silence  all  eternity  ? 

Nay  !  if  thou  wish  the  figure,  let  it  be 
A  sea  itself,  which,  drawing  from  the  shoal, 
Grows  deep  and  widens,  till  its  surges  roll 

With  but  the  skies  to  bound  their  liberty. 

Itself  the  sea,  that  here  in  land-locked  bays 
Obeys  the  ocean-tides  which  inward  flow  : 

We  cannot  see  the  main,  for  shoreward  haze  ; 
But  when  the  last  ebb  ripples  out,  we  know 

Through  all  the  weary  sobbing  of  the  shore, 

The  pure  deep  sea  receives  its  own  once  more. 


DEATH. 

A     NARROW  shadow,  thrown  across  the  door, 
*•*     And  all  beyond,  sweet  fields  and  endless 

day 

Of  sunshine.     One  last  turning  in  a  way 
Thence  leading  onward,  fairer  evermore. 
A  thread  of  mist,  low  lying  near  the  shore  ; 
This  side,  a  narrow  glimpse  ;  a  moment,  gray 
And  dim  ;  then  clouds  are  swept  away 
And  endless,  clear,  the  great  sea  lies  before. 

The  end,  the  dark,  and  silence  ?    Ah  !  we  know 
Scarce  a  beginning  yet  !     And  light  and  song 

And  knowledge,  given  larger  room,  shall  grow 
As  long  as  all  eternity  is  long. 

A  shade,  a  turn,  a  mist — a  moment's  fears 

Then  light,  to  learn  with  God  for  endless  years  ! 


68 


A   TYPE. 

T   PASSED  the  port  at  ebb  to-day, 

And,  grounded  by  the  tide, 
A  score  of  helpless  vessels  lay 
Careened  upon  their  side  : 

"  A  type,"  I  said  ;  "one  life  will  fail 
And,  with  its  help  withdrawn, 

Dependent  hearts,  like  stranded  sail, 
Find  all  that  buoyed  them  gone. ' ' 

I  passed  at  noon  ;  a  change  of  mood 
Had  filled  the  sparkling  bight, 

And,  dancing  on  another  flood, 
The  vessels  floated  light : 

' '  Yet  true, ' '  I  cried,  ' '  the  type  will  prove  ; 

More  sad  than  death  that  takes 
Is  this — so  soon  another  love 

Refills  the  gap  he  makes  !  " 


69 


OPPORTUNITY. 


tropic  suns  hung  overhead 
A  silent  orchid  grew, 
And  day  by  day  its  leaves  were  fed 
By  earth,  and  air,  and  dew  ; 

And  night  by  night  the  western  flame 
Paled  into  moonshine  white, 

But  yet  no  bud  put  forth,  nor  came 
A  bloom  by  day  or  night. 

Rank  all  around  grew  vine  and  weed 
While  slow  the  flower  matured, 

I^est,  by  its  least  defect,  a  seed 
Might  fail  to  be  secured  : 

But,  lost  amid  the  thicket's  gloom, 

No  butterfly  that  passed 
Sought  honey  from  the  tardy  bloom  ; 

It  failed  of  fruit  at  last. 

Far  off,  beneath  a  northern  sky, 
The  grass  grew  everywhere, 

And  every  wind  that  passed  it  by 
Had  pollen  grains  to  bear, 

70 


OPPORTUNITY. 

And  every  tiny  plume  which  tossed, 
Nodded  and  gave  and  gained  ; 

What  if  the  thousand  blossoms  lost  ? 
A  million  yet  remained : 

What  if  a  million  chances  failed  ? 

A  thousand  found  success  ; 
And,  foot  by  foot,  the  sod  prevailed 

Over  earth's  barrenness. 

It  drank  the  sun  where  children  played 
And  kine  grazed  far  and  wide  ; 

While,  choked  amid  the  thicket's  shade, 
A  fruitless  orchid  died. 


THE  POETS. 

HPHB  little  poet  is  a  tiny  stream 
-*•      Winding,  perhaps  unnoticed,  through  the 

wold, 

But  catching  here  and  there  a  flashing  gleam 
Of  sunlight  gold ; 

Making  reflection  of  a  little  space 

In  some  near  landscape,  or  a  bit  of  sky, 
Or  throwing  back  the  image  of  a  face 
That  passes  by  ; 

Held  to  a  channel — taking  all  his  tone 

From  near  surroundings — living  but  a  day  ; 
Babbling  at  trifles,  and  at  last  unknown 
A  league  away. 

But  the  great  singer  is  a  sweeping  tide 
Moved   by   deep   currents,    mighty    and    un- 
known ; 

lifting  the  burdens  of  a  world,  beside 
Bearing  his  own ; 
72 


THE  POETS.  73 

Making  a  mirror  where  a  nation's  eyes 

May  mete  themselves  with  heaven  that  spans 

them  o'er, 

And  gleaming  far,  although  the  mists  arise 
To  dim  the  shore. 

With  one  vast  purpose — bound  by  mighty  laws, 
Not  narrow    limits ;    governed    still,   though 

free  ; 

Half  is  from  earth,  and  half  his  fulness  draws 
From  infinite  sea. 


Yet  they  have  both  alike  one  element, 

Fed  from  on  high  in  different  degree  ; 
Each  runs  his  course,  to  find  at  last  content 
In  one  great  sea. 

The  least  of  all,  who  holds  one  purpose  fast — 

To  make  his  clearest  currents  purer  still — 
Shall  add  God's  love  to  man's,  and  work  at  last 
His  Master's  will. 


FLIGHT  OF  SUMMER. 

autumn  wind  has  made  its  moan  all  day 
-*•       In  shivering  woods,  where  dry  leaves  rus- 
tle down, 

And  over  wasted  fields,  fast  turning  brown 
With  grief,  that  summer  should  have  fled  away 
So  fast,  so  far  :  it  seems  but  yesterday 

She  came,   a  fair  young  queen,  with  golden 

crown 

Of  buttercups  ;  now  vainly  would  we  drown 
The  southland's  faint  recall — she  may  not  stay. 

Then    all    the    trees   wail  out:    "  Ah,   envious 

south!" 
And  through  the  withered  grass  there  steals  a 

sigh, 

As  evening  winds  pursue  where  summer  goes : 
"  Ah,  stay  !  "  they  cry  ;  "  once  more,  with  rosy 

mouth, 

Kiss  us  to  warmth.     See !  how  the  pale  gold  sky 
And   clear-lined    west    foretell    the    winter 
snows !" 


74 


COASTWISE. 

A  STRETCH  of  sharp,  salt  grass  and  barren 
sand, 

And  over  all  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 
Which  swells  and  dies  on  one  untiring  key 
As  the  wind    sweeps.      Across    the  long,   low 

strand 

The  whitened  foam  sweeps  inward  to  the  land, 
And  dragging  myriad  pebbles  down  the  lea, 
It  sucks  them  oceanward,  as  sullenly 
The  green  wave  gathers  back  its  outstretched 
hand. 

No  golden  tropic  island  scents  the  breeze, 

But  brine,  blown  in  from  endless  heaving  main  ; 

And  from  its  birthplace  in  the  open  seas 
It  sings  o'er  sandy  bluffs — no  dreamy  strain 

Of  summer  hills,  where  piping  shepherds  roam, 

But  toss  of  waves,  and  seething  of  the  foam  ! 


75 


TO  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 
(On  first  owning  a  volume  of  his  poems.) 

TV/T  AY  I  walk  awhile  with  you  ? 

I  who  watched  you  going  past 
Now  and  then,  and  never  knew 

Where  you  went  —  may  I  at  last 
Walk  with  you  an  hour  or  two  ? 

Wander  with  you,  arm  in  arm, 
Not  through  any  noisy  street 

Walled  and  paved,  but  round  the  farm, 
Till,  like  wading  boys,  our  feet 

Stir  the  knee-deep  clover  balm  ? 

Teach  me  things  we  need  to  learn, 
We  who,  half-way  city  bred, 

Still  at  heart  will  often  yearn 
For  a  wide  sky  overhead 

Or  the  cooling  breath  of  fern  : 


me  feel  as  you  feel—  so  — 

Lying  deep  in  orchard  grass, 

Hearing  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

Watching  where  the  breezes  pass 
Swaying  grass  tops  to  and  fro  ; 
76 


TO  JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILE  Y.  77 

Letting  thoughts  and  fancies  fly 

Till  they  get  so  far  away 
We  can't  call  them  back,  and  lie 

Just  content  to  let  them  stray 
All  outdoors  and  round  the  sky. 

Tell  me,  why  do  country  things 

Fall  so  sweetly  into  words, 
That  a  man  who  loves  them  sings 

Like  the  little  happy  birds 
Filled  with  joy  of  many  springs  ? 

Tell  me  how  a  song  is  made, 
How  to  learn  the  robin's  song 

When  he  calls  through  orchard  shade 
Flecked  with  sunlight,  morning  long, 

Little  bars  the  wind  has  played  : 

How  to  win  and  hide  away 

In  a  book,  the  heart  of  June, 
Till  its  sunlight  seems  to  play 

On  the  page,  with  drowsy  tune 
Crickets  make  in  new-mown  hay. 

Let  me  walk  a  while  with  you — 
Bask  and  doze,  or  drink  my  fill 

In  the  clover  scent  and  dew 
Over  farm  and  meadow,  till 

You,  who  know  them,  teach  me  too. 


RETURN  OF  SPRING. 

T  WATCH  the  shadows  come  and  go, 
^     I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Or  feel  it  on  my  cheek,  and  know 
That  there  have  been  such  things  as  these, 
Throughout  a  hundred  centuries. 

That  cowslips  starred  the  woods  in  spring, 
For  ages,  ere  our  life  began  ; 

The  brooks  stole  through  them  murmuring, 
The  same  blue  thread  of  river  ran 
Without  the  sight  or  thought  of  man. 

And  all  the  misty  warmth  to-day, 
The  flight  of  birds  and  insects'  hum, 

Are  but  in  likeness  of  the  way 
Uncounted  thousand  springs  have  come, 
While  yet  the  voice  of  man  was  dumb. 

There  is  no  change  in  nature's  face  ; 

She  sings  the  same  mysterious  tone 
Which  soothed  the  earliest  of  our  race, 

In  dim  forgotten  age  of  stone  ; 

The  progress  is  in  man  alone. 
78 


RETURN  OF  SPRING. 

One  changing  life,  'mid  changeless  laws  ; 

We  claim  the  birthright,  yet  must  see 
That  every  smallest  daisy  draws 

From  longer  ancestry  than  we, 

And  mocks  us  with  infinity. 

Look  back  the  years  ;  our  primal  kind, 
Uncouth,  inhuman,  scarce  display 

The  Godlike  impress  on  the  mind  ; 
Yet  all  around  them,  nature  lay 
As  grandly  perfect  as  to-day. 

Divine  in  patience  :  well  content, 
Since  such  perfection  lay  in  her, 

To  wait  for  man's  development 
To  furnish  an  interpreter, 
Nor  stint  her  wealth  till  that  occur. 

Not  counting  all  the  weary  past, 
But  waiting  to  be  understood  ; 

That  haply  man  might  find  at  last, 
Through  sight  of  her  infinitude, 
More  knowledge  of  the  higher  good. 

Be  turned  by  kind,  if  forceful,  hands 
From  low  ideals  of  ease  in  sloth, 

To  learn  the  key  from  her  who  stands 
Serene  yet  tireless — blending  both 
Perfected  rest  and  endless  growth. 


8O  S  UMMER-FA  LL  O  W. 

Bach  breath  that  stirs,  each  trembling  gleam 

Across  the  softly  budding  tree, 
Bespeaks  a  faint,  evasive  dream 

Of  bygone  years  and  years  to  be ; 

We  live  amid  eternity. 

And  so,  for  countless  thousand  springs, 
The  same  warm  sun  awakes,  and  fills 

The  air  with  stir  of  fluttering  wings  ; 
The  same  sweet  sense  of  living  thrills 
The  brooks  embosomed  in  the  hills. 

And  man,  though  half  unconscious,  learns 
Old  lessons  with  a  deeper  sense, 

Old  thoughts  in  which  new  meaning  burns, 
From  these  renewed  divine  events 
In  one  eternal  Providence. 


TO  YOU  WHO  READ. 
(RONDEAU.) 

T^O  you  who  read,  I  make  no  claim 
•*•       Of  long  acquaintanceship  with  fame 
Nor  may  I  preface  this  address 
By  any  lines,  wherein  the  press 

Makes  kindly  mention  of  my  name. 

So,  should  my  Pegasus  go  lame, 
Or  style  or  subject  meet  with  blame, 
I  will  but  plead  for  gentleness, 

To  you  who  read  ! 

Nay — not  because  my  Muse's  flame 
Burns  dimly,  shall  I  hide  in  shame  ; 
But  should  a  word  of  mine  make  less 
My  brother's  joy,  or  give  distress — 
Then  I  were  sorry  that  I  came 

To  you  who  read  ! 


81 


THE  WORLD  IS  LARGE. 

(RONDEAU.) 

'"PHE  world  is  large  enough,  although 
*~       A  few,  who  wander  to  and  fro 
With  some  unnamed,  unknown  regret 
Or  grief,  which  they  would  fain  forget, 

Have  sought,  and  have  not  found  it  so. 

Too  small,  perhaps,  for  sin  to  show 
Its  sinfulness  ;  too  small  to  know 
All  majesty  of  truth,  and  yet 

The  world  is  large ! 

With  largeness  for  a  soul  to  grow, 
With  larger  ends  than  joy  or  woe ; 

Too  large  for  any  man  to  set 

The  bounds  of  knowledge  :  who  shall  fret, 
And  say  " the  world  is  small"  ?    Ah,  no  ! 
The  world  is  large. 


TO  THE  PROFESSOR. 
(RONDEAU.) 

\7" OUR  path  and  mine  lie  wide  apart  ; 

For  you,  the  things  of  head  and  heart, 
The  level  of  that  loftier  plane, 
Where  soul  draws  near  its  source  again  : 

For  me,  the  sordid  street  and  mart. 

Your  choice  has  found  "  that  better  part," 
And,  Martha-like,  I  feel  the  smart, 
And  oft  contrast,  with  secret  pain, 

Your  path  and  mine  ! 

But  yet,  two  vessels  may  depart 
On  different  tacks,  yet  by  one  chart 
Direct  their  course  across  the  main, 
To  some  far  port :  and  so  these  twain 
May  finish  closer  than  they  start, 

Your  path  and  mine  ! 


BALLAD  OF  SHADE  AND  SUN. 
(BAU,ADE  A  DOUBLE  REFRAIN.) 

"\  \  7"HBN  the  south  wind  steals  from  a  glowing 
V  V          sky, 

Through  hot,  sweet  meadows  and  haunt  of  bees  ; 
When  the  sunlight  ripples  in  tawny  rye, 

Sing  hey  !  for  a  hammock  among  the  trees  ; 
But  whenever  the  heat  to  the  southward  flees, 

When  the  shrill  winds  whistle  and  shriek,  and 

strow 
The  shreds  of  the  summer,  we  find  our  ease 

With  a  book  and  a  pipe  by  a  wood  fire's  glow. 

When  days  of  the  summer  go  softly  by 

In  sight  of  the  mountains  or  sound  of  seas, 
When  Mabel  is  tender  or  Maud  is  shy, 

Sing  hey  !  for  a  hammock  among  the  trees  : 
But  whenever  it  happens,  or  fate  decrees 

You  must  have  but  ' '  a  sister, ' '  (who  tells  you 

so)- 
Having  drunk  of  the  cup,  make  the  best  of  the  lees 

With  a  book  and  a  pipe  by  a  wood  fire's  glow. 


BALLAD   OF  SHADE  AND   SUN.  8$ 

When  Cupid  trifles  and  love  is  sly, 

While  he  must  languish,  and  she  may  teaze  ; 
For  maids  coquettish  and  swains  who  sigh, 

Sing  hey  !  for  a  hammock  among  the  trees  : 
But  whenever  the  parson  has  earned  his  fees, 

And  a  man's  own  home  is  his  home,  you  know, 
He  joys  (when  her  ladyship,  too,  agrees) 

With  a  book  and  a  pipe  by  a  wood  fire's  glow. 

When  life  is  pleasant  and  friends  are  nigh, 

And  everything  happens  to  soothe  and  please, 
When  mornings  are  drowsy  and  suns  are  high, 

Sing  hey  !  for  a  hammock  among  the  trees  : 
But  whenever  the  winter  begins  to  freeze, 

And  days  grow  lonely,  or  evenings  slow, 
We  can  brighten  the  tone  of  our  reveries 

With  a  book  and  a  pipe  by  a  wood  fire's  glow. 

Envoi. 

For  a  rapt  existence  of  sun  and  breeze, 
Sing  hey  !  for  a  hammock  among  the  trees  : 
But  the  solidest,  warmest  of  comforts  go 
With  a  book  and  a  pipe  by  a  wood  fire's  glow. 


IN  SHADYTOWN. 
(RONDEAU.) 

"  T  N  Shady  town  " — the  words  suggest 

Two  lines  of  elms,  where  orioles  nest 
Beneath  a  quiet  strip  of  sky  : 
Kach  side  the  shadowed  road,  should  lie 
Old  country  gardens,  quaintly  dressed. 
.    It  breathes  an  air  of  simple  rest, 

As  if  no  dweller  there  were  pressed 
For  time  ;  the  days  should  slumber  by 

In  Shadytown. 

And  oftentimes,  it  seems  't  were  best, 

Such  freedom  from  this  anxious  quest 

Of  ours  ;  but  smaller  cares  may  try 

The  smaller  life.     Perhaps  the  sigh 

Stirs  often,  from  the  rustic  breast 

In  Shadytown  ! 


86 


TRIOLETS. 

A  Prelude. 

stood  at  the  gate 
And  robins  were  calling. 
It  must  have  been  fate 
You  stood  at  the  gate 
That  evening,  so  late  ; 
The  twilight  was  falling, 
You  stood  at  the  gate 
And  robins  were  calling  ! 

An  Ellipsis. 

We  need  not  tell 
Quite  all  we  know  ; 
So  what  befell 
We  need  not  tell—- 
It 's  just  as  well 
To  leave  it  so  ; 
We  need  not  tell 
Quite  all  we  know  I 
87 


88  SUMMER-FA  LL  O  W. 

And  a  Postlude. 

You  whispered  so  low 
I  hardly  could  hear  you  ; 
And  how  should  I  know 
You  whispered  so  low 
On  purpose  to  show 
You  wanted  me  near  you  ? 
You  whispered  so  low 
I  hardly  could  hear  you  ! 


WITH  FLOWERS. 

i. 

,  Rose  !  and  in  my  lady's  ear  to-night 
Whisper  sweet  wishes  for  the  glad   New 

Year; 
And  to  her  heart  bring  peace,  and  pure  delight 

And  gentle  thoughts  of  him  who  sent  thee  here. 
Ah,  happy  flower  !  yet  must  thou  now  confess 
That  she  can  teach  thee  greater  loveliness  ! 

ii. 

Ah,  Roses  tender,  sweetest  of  roses, 
I  pray  you,  look  in  my  lady's  face  ! 

Saw  you  e'er  sweeter  amongst  your  own  ? 
Speak  soft,  ere  slumber  your  petals  closes  ; 
For  him  who  sent  you,  bespeak  a  place 
In  thoughts  as  faultless  as  flowers  alone. 


89 


A  CONTENTED  MAN. 

TT  K  had  a  little  cottage  home 

•*•     Behind  the  country  store — 
A  simple,  quaint,  old-fashioned  place 

With  vines  around  the  door, 
A  yellow  rose-bush  in  the  yard, 

Two  rows  of  hollyhocks, 
And  near  the  flowering  almond  bush 

A  bed  of  four-o' -clocks. 

He  had  not  many  books,  but  felt 

His  poverty  no  lack  ; 
The  Bible,  some  one's  Life  of 'Grant \ 

A  drug-store  almanac, 
An  old  back-number  magazine, 

His  library's  extent  ; 
But  he  would  neither  claim  nor  wish 

The  literary  bent. 

And  simple  in  his  mode  of  life 
One  room  sufficed  for  all — 

His  parlor,  kitchen,  dining-room, 
His  library  and  hall. 

No  grand  saloon  was  spread  for  him, 
No  cloisters  heard  his  tread  ; 
90 


A    CONTENTED  MAN.  91 

But  never  king  had  wider  sky 
Nor  bluer  overhead. 

No  man  had  less  of  care  than  he  ; 

He  toiled  with  strength  and  main, 
But  though  night  found  him  weary  limbed 

No  worry  taxed  his  brain. 
For  his  few  wants,  his  daily  wage 

Was  ample  to  provide  ; 
And  poverty  meant  naught  to  him 

Who  felt  no  want  denied. 

For  whether  he  looked  out  or  in, 

The  framing  of  his  door 
Encircled  all  his  eyes  desired — 

He  longed  for  nothing  more. 
The  social  claims  on  him  were  light ; 

Nor  greed  nor  care  of  wealth 
Disturbed  his  sleep  ;  and  simple  life 

Preserved  his  rugged  health. 

While  warm  winds  swung  the  doorway  vines 

Or  whitened  snow-drifts  spread, 
Year  in  and  out,  each  night  he  heard 

His  children  romp  to  bed. 
Outdoors  or  in,  he  smoked  his  pipe, 

Then  laid  it  on  the  shelf, 
Unmoved  by  thought,  unvexed  by  dreams, 

And  went  to  bed  himself. 


ROMANCE  OF  A  HAMMOCK. 

A  MONGST  the  sunny  apple-trees, 
^*     And  'mid  a  scent  of  haying, 
In  dainty  muslin  draperies 

A  little  maid  was  swaying  ; 
The  summer  sky  peeped  down,  among 
The  leaves  above  her,  as  she  swung  ; 
And  when  she  looked  so  sweet  and  young, 

How  could  he  keep  from  staying  ? 

She  was  asleep,  he  fondly  thought 

But,  seeking  to  discover, 
The  pretty  eyes  looked  up,  and  caught 

Him  fairly,  bent  above  her  ; 
It  may  have  been  their  fates'  intent, 
It  may  have  been  an  accident : 
But  either  brought  the  one  event — 

He  straightway  came  to  love  her. 

No  stern  duenna  stood  on  guard, 

No  proper  elder  sister  : 
And  so  he  found  it  quite  too  hard, 

Unhindered,  to  resist  her : 
92 


ROMANCE  OF  A   HAMMOCK.  93 

For  when  the  languid  summer  air 
Brushed  back  the  curl  of  golden  hair 
That  touched  her  cheek,  she  looked  so  fair 
He  stooped,  and  softly  kissed  her  ! 

You  think  that  he  was  * '  very  rude, ' ' 
And  she  was  * '  bold  and  naughty ' '  ? 

It  may  be  you  have  misconstrued — 
So,  ere  you  look  so  haughty, 

Please  wait  to  hear  the  story  told  ; 

Perhaps  you  may  not  care  to  scold ; 

For  she  was  only  four  years  old, 
And  he  was  over  forty  ! 


LUELLA. 

SHE  seems  —  and  yet  it  were  a  shame 
To  tell  her— 

A  picture  of  some  courtly  dame 
Unsuited  to  its  rustic  frame, 
Unsuited,  all  except  the  name  — 


I  watch  her  part  the  window  lace 

Asunder  : 

She  stands,  unconscious  of  her  grace 
And  beauty.  Which  is  out  of  place, 
Her  worldly  station,  or  her  face, 

I  wonder  ? 

Her  step,  the  way  she  holds  her  head 

In  keeping 

Withal,  suggests  one  used  to  tread 
The  minuet  :  too  softly  bred 
To  spend  her  days  in  making  bread 

Or  sweeping. 

94 


LUELLA.  95 

Is  there  a  stir  of  vague  desires 

Within  her  ? 

Or  would  she  live  'mid  country  squires — 
No  hothouse  rose  amid  the  briers — 
But  happy,  when  her  lord  admires 

His  dinner  ? 

Perhaps  she  suits  her  queenly  look — 

I,uella, 

More  fitly  than  her  country  nook. 
Perhaps  again,  though  skilled  to  cook, 
She  hardly  knows  her  grammar  book 

Or  speller. 

'T  were  easy  to  essay  the  test 

And  prove  it : 

And  yet,  I  like  this  spell  the  best ; 
If  "  distance  lends  " — why,  let  it  rest. 
I  have  my  dream  :  might  not  the  quest 

Remove  it  ? 

I  love,  nor  need  to  seek  my  dear 

And  tell  her. 

It  pleases  me  to  gaze  from  here  ; 
Why  is  it  so  ?     Perhaps,  from  fear  ; 
Perhaps — I  might  not  love  you,  near, 

Luella  ! 


A  COUNTRY  MUSE. 
(RONDEAU.) 

/t  CO  UNTR  Y  Muse  is  mine,  untaught 
^^      Informal  modes  of  speech  or  thought, 

Nor  strung  to  any  lofty  key  ; 

But  shyly  asking  you  to  see 
The  simple  posy  she  has  brought. 

She  holds,  perhaps,  (as  muses  ought,) 
A  wealth  of  less  prosaic  sort — 

Less  wheat  than  daisies — -yet  is  she 

A  country  muse  : 

Unused  to  ways  of  stage  and  court, 
Unknown  to  fashion  :  asking  naught 

But  leave  to  roam  the  meadows,  free 

To  sing  herself  to  sleep  :  to  be 
The  only  thing  she  can,  in  short, 

A  country  muse  ! 


96 


M191943 


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